


But Our Souls Knew How to Dance

by GraySonOfGotham



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, No Fluff, Oblivious Bruce Wayne, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Rare Diseases, Secrets, Terminal Illnesses, Worry, dying, too late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraySonOfGotham/pseuds/GraySonOfGotham
Summary: The Joker, Clown Prince of Crime, does not have a lot of time left. In fact, he has less than a year.Suddenly, everything falls into perspective for him, but he did not want to change what he already had. He planned do go out fighting, preferrably with his Bat.But the Bat does not know about this. No, Batman's greatest frustration was that the Joker had recently adopted a new habit of telling him that,"My life is yours, Batsy. Yours to keep, yours to take."





	1. It Got Worse

“My life is yours, Batsy,” Joker said, grinning through the blood that stained his teeth, dripping from his sticky and broken nose. “You, ah, know that, right? Yours to keep, yours to take. The ball’s always in your court. You choose when to end this, ah, _game_.”

A hard punch to the stomach was the only response. Joker grunted, but he grinned through the pain.

“There’s no use denying it,” he said. Another hard punch. Joker’s vision swam with dark and light spots. Fuck, he needed to go. “You’ve known the rules to the game, Bats. If you want to stop playing, all you need to do is stop the other player. Stop the other player’s heart, that is.”

A third punch, and Joker nearly blacked out for a moment. He pushed hard at the large build of the Batman away from him. Joker dashed to the door of the warehouse. His bloody hand rested on the door handle. Joker flashed the Bat another bloody grin before tossing a smoke bomb at the Batman and made his escape. As he stumbled away, he heard the roof of the warehouse collapse, and the entire building came down on itself.

Joker walked several blocks away before he crawled into an alley and collapsed against a Dumpster. Taking gasping breaths, Joker raised his hands to his face.

His right hand was steady for a moment, then it jerked slightly, and Joker knew it was not from the cold.

His left hand was broken and did not shake at all.

Joker let his hands drop and he rested his head against the Dumpster. It was getting worse. It had been barely ten minutes that he had fought the Batman, and Joker had already been on the verge of passing out.

Joker took a deep breath and held back a sob. He slammed his head back against the Dumpster once, the clanging echoed through the empty streets for a moment.

It was getting worse, and Joker for once, had no idea what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING, this is heavy angst. Heavy, heavy angst. That reason is, as I have previously stated several times in my other stories, Batjokes (as much as love them) is a relationship built for tragedy. If one wants to stay true to the characters and their canon backgrounds, it's very hard to get a working relationship, one that is believable at least. I mean, sure you can change the characters all completely, but then is it really Batjokes? So there's two ways one can write this relationship: work really, really hard on trying to find a way to make their relationship work, or write angst. 
> 
> So that's actually one of the main reasons I started writing Batjokes (besides the damned Lego Batman movie and fucking Europa), and then, I NEVER GOT AROUND TO IT?? I believe I have more Batjokes than any other ship, and none of it is heavy angst. Sure, there's some angst with fluff, but I've never written on centered around angst. I love writing angst, and it's never happened here? So, as badly as I will feel for breaking my fluffy Batjokes streak, here's some tragedy with a side of tears.
> 
> Leave me a comment! And tell me what you think about writing (or reading) Batjokes, I kind of want to know. Is it just me who delves so deeply in the psychological aspects of writing this ship? <3


	2. Safe

It started two months ago. Joker noticed that the muscles in his hands were having random, small spasms. They could easily be passed as a reflexive action or a nervous habit, but Joker knew it was not the case.

Then, came spots of memory that just seemed have disappeared. Sometimes, he would be going over a plan with a group of henchmen, and he would stop because he forgot what the plan was, and who he was talking to.

Or he would forget where he puts his favorite knife, even though it is always in the same pocket of his jacket.

At first, Joker ignored it. But then he went to visit an old doctor friend of his. He sat in the sterile hospital under scans and different tests for the longest time. After many hours, the test results came in, and Joker found out.

Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Rare and incurable. Joker had a year to live at most, and it was probable that his last few months would be spent in a coma.

Joker had killed his doctor friend and set the hospital on fire as he went out, making sure to toss his test results into the flames as he walked out.

No one could know about this. It would stay with him until the end.

Joker spent a week in one of his safe houses, thinking about his condition. He did some research, blowing through three laptops before he got the information he did not ask for.

In the end, there was one conclusion. Joker was a dead man. He was already showing symptoms: impaired memory, jerky muscle movements. The thing was, half of the symptoms for CJD were personality based. Things such as anxiety, depression, and dementia. They were all things Joker had dealt with before, and they hardly made a dent in his usual personality. So it would not be hard to act like he was normal.

But Joker was not going to go out without a fight.

He thought about it, and decided that he would continue doing what he always did until his body gave up on him. Then, he would go out with a bang. He wanted to die by the hands of the Batman, not some disease in his brain.

He did not care what measures he had to go to to get Batsy to end his life, but he would get there. Whether Joker needed to grab his hand and do it, or threaten one of the Bat’s birds, or burn down the entirety of Gotham, he would get what he wants.

So with his mind set, Joker went about, continuing what he had been doing before.  


	3. Tired of It

“Where are the hostages, Joker?” Batman demanded. He shook Joker by the front of his bloody shirt.

Joker giggled. His head throbbed tremendously, and everything hurt. He had not slept in several days either. But even so, when he heard that the Bat had taken a few days off of patrol recently, Joker knew he had to do something to lure him out.

It was the classic grab a few people, stash them somewhere and broadcast a threat to blow them up should the Batman not show up.

And as predictable as every time Joker has pulled this trick, the Batman had showed up.

Joker was not feeling the fight. He was tired, and he barely had enough energy to walk, let alone perform the elaborate dance he and the Bat always did. So Joker let himself be pulled to the movements, like a helpless puppet at the hands of a master puppeteer.

Batman slammed his head against the brick wall again. Joker gritted his teeth against the pain and forced himself to keep the smile on his face. He was a master at hiding pain. “Where are the hostages?!” Batman yelled again.

Joker swallowed. It tasted like iron and dirt. “Wouldn’t- Wouldn’t you like to know?” he managed. The words felt like they had been physically wrung from his throat. His eyes were open, but he could barely see Batman anymore.

He was picked up off the ground, held tightly against the wall by his throat. His breath was cut off, but still, he grinned wider. “Are you going to do it?” He choked out. “Do it, Batsy,” Joker said. On the outside, he said it like a challenge. Inside, he was practically begging.

But then, the Bat let him drop. He collapsed into a pile of broken limbs and bruises at the Bat’s feet. Air rushed into his lungs, and Joker wanted to scream. Batman was listening to someone over the comm. Joker could not hear what they were saying. But the Bat responded with, “Good, get them out and get Gordon there. I have Joker.”

So the birds found the hostages. Joker did not feel all that disappointed in that. No, his disappointment was fully directed on the fact that Batsy did not kill him.

He was still heaving and gasping for breath by the time Batman turned his attention back to him. He grabbed Joker’s broken wrist and pull him up. Cold, metal handcuffs clicked around his wrist.

Batman tossed Joker over his shoulder and started to walk outside. Joker was silent this whole time, fighting the anger and the outrage boiling inside him. He sucked at his bleeding lip and squeezed his eyes shut.

A moment later, Batman pushed Joker into the passenger side of the Batmobile. His hands were locked to the door, his feet tied together. The door slammed shut. Joker leaned his head against the cold window, his eyes shut. Batman climbed into the driver’s seat.

They started driving. Joker knew where they were headed. The one place he hated most in the city.

Joker never opened his eyes. He did not want to see the city he loved and hated passing by. He did not want to see Batman’s stoic frown.

“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” Joker asked after a long, five minute silence. “Of us?” His voice cracked at the end, but his entire sentence was mangled and hard to comprehend anyway from his swollen throat.

Joker had always thought that he and Batman were two sides to the same coin. They could not ever be bored of each other. When one calls, the other answers. Those were the rules to the game, the steps to their dance. And Joker thought it would be forever, honestly. But now that he had a deadline, everything sort of shifted.

The Batman never showed any reaction to Joker. He was always cold and emotionless. Sure, that’s the way he was, but sometimes his movements were so practiced and predictable that Joker wondered if it was all just routine for the Bat.

He never dared ask the question, in fear of the answer, but now that he had nothing to lose, Joker decided to ask him.

“I’m tired of you,” was Batman’s grating answer.

A small smile appeared on Joker’s lips. “I see,” he said quietly. Then, a moment later, “But you know how to stop this. You know there’s only one solution this equation. You’ve tried other ways, they’ve never worked.”

Joker laughed, the movement shaking his body. Everything protested and a new wave of pain came crashing down on time. But Joker continued smiling through this with his eyes closed. If he opened them, they would be red rimmed and teary. “My life is yours. It’s always belonged to you. You gave it to me, and so it is yours to take away.”

But Bat was silent. Joker did not open his eyes the entire ride to Arkham. But he did watch the Bat walk away from his solitary cell, never once looking back.


	4. White and Black

White, everything was white.

Joker hated white. But there was nothing he could do about it. So all he could do was close his eyes, making everything black instead.

He liked black. Black was the color of the Bat, the color of the night, the color of Gotham to her very core.

It had been at least few weeks since the Bat had left him here. And not once has Joker made an attempt to break out yet. He was actually complacent. He let the doctors pump drugs into his body. He let them do experiments. Joker did not speak with any of them. He did not give them any reaction to any of their drugs.

He did not even know if the drugs had any effects on him, since he kept his eyes closed most of the time.

Joker did not fight back because he did not know if he could face the Bat for a while yet.

Batman said he was tired of Joker. He could be lying. But if he was not tired of Joker, he would stop shoving him into this shithole, or visit him occasionally. But the Batman never showed his face here.

Joker did not know exactly how long he had been in Arkham this time. The days blurred together, and everything was either black or white. He preferred the black to the white, so he kept his eyes closed.

A long time later, his door opened. Joker opened his eyes to this. Usually, they only opened the tiny slot at the bottom of the door to send in food, which Joker does not eat, mostly because that is how they slip drugs to the patients.

A doctor, dressed in a white coat, walked in. “Patient J,” the doctor said. He had fear in his eyes. Joker stared at him unseeingly. “We will be transporting you out of solitary. You will be going to another cell, separate from the other patients, but if you continue the good behavior, you may be able to join the others someday.”

Good behavior. That’s what they thought this was. Joker nearly smirked. They make it too easy.

But instead, he let himself be dragged out. He was pushed into another room. There was a tiny window on one side, complete with bulletproof glass. The room was still white, and there were padding around every inch of covered space. It looked no different from solitary.

They removed the straitjacket, but they made him wear handcuffs and around his ankles as well.

As the doctor started to go, after explaining a whole bunch of other thing Joker did not listen to, he asked, “How long have I been here?”

The doctor blinked at the question. It was the first reaction they had gotten out of them since the Bat had brought him here.

“Six weeks,” the doctor answered. He continued to stare at Joker, but Joker laid down on the cot and closed his eyes again. The doctor left.

Six weeks. He thought it had been maybe three weeks or four, but it had been six. This was one of the longer stays he had done at Arkham. Maybe it was time to get out.

After all, if Joker was not wrong, he had eight months left to live at most. And he needed all the time he could get.


	5. Glass

It was way too easy to break out. Joker managed to sneak a pencil from one of the therapy sessions they put him back in.

And he waited another week before he put his plan into action. He stabbed two nurses through the neck with the pencil and shoved it into the eye of a guard.

He then took the guard’s taser and gun, and he escaped.

Joker made it into the city and watched as police swarmed Arkham. Then, he slinked off into a nearby safe house.

There, Joker got changed. He put on his purple jacket and pants. A green bowtie, and red lipstick. He eyed the white greasepaint and pushed it away in disgust. His skin was pale enough as is. But his scars were more prominent now.

He grabbed the green hair dye, touching up the inch of white blonde hair that had grown out.

Then, Joker took a deep breath. He looked at himself in the mirror. His face was gaunt and haunted looking, more so than usual. His eyes were hollow.

Joker headed out of the bathroom. The rest of the safe house smelled like dust and mold. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass. It was covered in a thick layer of dust. Joker rinsed it slowly under the slightly rusty water. Then, he filled it again.

He brought the glass to his lips, but before the cool glass touched his red lips, his hand jerked, and the glass crashed to the ground. Sharp shards and water spilled across the floor and over his bare feet.

Joker stared down at the mess.

He lowered himself to the ground, back leaning against the cabinet. He went to pick up one of the larger pieces. He held it between his fingers, watching the moonlight reflect off it. Then, his muscles jerked again, and the shard sliced his fingers.

Drops of red welled up on his finger and ran down towards his palm, his wrist and disappeared into his jacket.

Soon, his hand had several rivets of blood rolling down. It blurred together, and Joker laughed out loud. His hand reminded him of a candy cane. Red, white, thin and so easily broken.

He let his head thump against the cabinet.

He needed to call someone. There was a girl he could call. What was her name? Holly, or something.

Joker could not remember her name. He also had no phone.

No, Joker had to go find her. Where was she anyway? He could not even remember who she was, let alone where she might be.

A growl bubbled up Joker’s throat. It came out low and threatening. Then, it escalated into a scream, and Joker squeezed the glass shard in his hand, and pain finally bloomed up his arm, shocking his brain.

His vision cleared, and he remembered.

Harley. He had to find Harley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, so I stumbled upon something today that I thought was completely ridiculous and completely nonsensical, but for some reason I'm so entertained by the idea. Okay, so apparently Joker/Loki is a thing? And I can't in any way seeing them working out at all, even less than Batjokes, and besides the fact they're from two different universes and have completely different goals in regards to villainy. BUT BUT BUT, why can I just see them after a long day of plotting world domination and blowing up buildings, bloody and bruised and just complaining loudly? Like, comparing how horrible their lives are trying to outdo each other because all super villains have super-egos, duh. And the CRITICISM that would be made about Joker's sense of fashion? I can just hear it already. "Green and purple? How absolutely atrocious. You want that flying rodent of yours to give you some respect? Start by wearing something other than an old lady's drapes." UGHHH. Then, I would write that, but then I'd have to explain how the fuck the two worlds clashed and brought them together and is it just them or did everything smash together? And that's too much work, so. And that's what most of my stories start out as, though most of them will never see the light of day, like this one!


	6. The Darkness

“Is something wrong, Mista J?” Harley asked, rubbing his shoulders.

Joker did not answer. He frowned at the blank calendar in front of him. He had been in Arkham for a total of two months. And there had been two and a half months before that, that he found out about his condition. Joker had probably less than eight months left.

From his research, Joker found out that CJD patients were usually in a coma for the final last two or three months before their death. So Joker had about five months, at best.

Five months, less than half a year left to live. Joker growled and sat forward. His hand tightened on the pencil in his hand, then it jerked out of his hand.

“Leave me alone, Harley,” Joker said.

Harley made a wounded noise but she left the room. Joker stared at the pencil he had dropped. He tried to pick it up, but his hand did not move. He tried again. His fingers twitched, but his and did not move.

“Fuck,” he said quietly. He was running out of time really fast. He did not have the time to do elaborate plans. He needed to see the Bat, as much as possible. He pushed himself to his feet. He grabbed his jacket on his way out, glad that his hand worked again.

He slammed the door on the way out.

All Joker had to do was wait on a rooftop, really. Batman found him easily.

“Joker,” the Bat’s gravelly voice said.

Joker shivered. He missed that voice. His heart had been aching to hear that voice again, even though Joker did not want to face him after last time.

“You broke out of Arkham,” the Bat stated. “Why?”

Joker turned around, taking in the Bat’s figure. Joker giggled. “I got bored,” he lied. “Needed to see you again.”

“They said you were doing well. Cooperating.”

Joker laughed loudly, throwing his head back. He shook his head and pretended to wipe tears from his eyes. His vision had gone blurry again. He could not tell exactly where the Bat was.

“Cooperating? Me? No, I was, ah, thinking about things. I just did not fight back.” Behind his back, Joker’s arm jerked. He clamped his other hand down on his wrist.

Footsteps started coming near Joker. Joker could hear the Bat’s footsteps, but he could see the man. He did not know exactly where he was. A hand grabbed his chin and tilted his face up.

Joker swallowed uncomfortably. It alarmed him that the Bat was right in front of his face and still, Joker could not see him. The panic started building in his chest. In fact, the twinkling lights that had blended into a dirty, faded light were disappearing as well.

Then, he could not see anything. Joker gasped sharply. He was blind. He could not see. He had hoped that he would not go blind. He did not want to lose his sight. That was the only thing he had hoped to keep until the end.

Now, he can’t see his Bat. He can’t ever know what it would look like if he smiled. Joker had seen the practiced smiles that Bruce Wayne put on for the paps, and he had seen the cold, cruel smile that Batman occasionally showed when he believed that he rightfully brought justice.

But Joker could not once remember if Batman ever smiled at him. Because of him.

The panic grew. What if he _forgot_ what Batsy looked like? What if he starts _forgetting_ everything as well? A choked sob flew out of Joker’s lips.

The grip on his chin tightened. “What’s behind your back?” The Bat growled.

Joker desperately wanted to touch his face, wanted to memorize everything he had not bothered to take note of when he still had his sight. He forgot he had been holding his own arm, his nails digging into his own wrist.

His hand was jerked out from behind him. He could feel one hand slick with blood, and his arm also soaked in it.

Joker could not see Batman’s reaction. His chin was released, and Joker wanted to cry at the loss of his touch. Everything was a dizzying black, and Joker like he had been packed into a tiny box and buried underground. It was suffocating and he could not see.

The only thing that told Joker that Batman was still there was the hand around his wrist.

His sleeve was roughly pulled up, and Joker gasped when he felt the cold night air touch his bloody arm. He could not breathe. He tried to breathe, he tried to, but no air would go into his lungs.

His arm was dropped, and Joker immediately reached forward. “No!” He yelled. He grabbed a fistful of cape and held it tightly. He took a weak breath, despite the efforts to breathe. “D-Don’t go,” he said weakly. His was feeling lightheaded. He could not breathe. His hands were shaking, and he grabbed onto the cape tighter. He was afraid his fingers would jerk, and Batman would pull away and disappear.

“Are you- Are you having an _anxiety_ attack?” Batman asked.

The words barely processed to Joker. Was he dying? He could not feel anything. He knew he was not breathing, but he did not know if his fingers were numb from lack of oxygen, the cold, or he was really losing the feeling in his fingers.

Suddenly, large hands grabbed either side of Joker’s shoulders. Rough and strong and grounding. Joker took a gasping breath. Then another. Then a third. Feeling returned to his tingling fingers, and he felt the thick cape in his hand.

His knees gave out, and he fell to the ground. The cape slipped out of his fingers, and Joker screeched. “No! P-Please, no!” His throat felt like it was closing up again. He wished he could see where the Bat was, he wanted to see him, so badly. Just one last time. That was all he would ask. But just black.

His hands grabbed uselessly at air, and Joker grew more and more desperate each time his fingers failed to grab something. Then, a hand grabbed his, and Joker latched onto it with both hands, so fucking glad to know the Bat had not left him.

“Joker, what the fuck?” Batman asked loudly. He knelt down next to Joker, and Joker used his hands to feel his way up the Bat’s arm, then he found his neck, and Joker clung onto him.

“Don’t go,” he sobbed. “Please don’t go.”

“Joker…”

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Joker said. “I’m sorry. Just let me see, I just want to see, please. I want to see,” he cried.

“See what?” Batman growled. “Joker!”

Joker physically blinked several times, but never once did he see a spot of color or a point of light. Just inky darkness. He cried, clinging onto Batman’s neck.

It took a long time for Joker to stop crying. He ran out of tears, and his throat hurt, and his chest hurt. Everything hurt.

His hands jerked uselessly, but they clung onto the Bat. Soon, he was just sniffling quietly. Joker wished he could see what the Bat was looking at right now. It was probably a lot more beautiful than the black Joker was seeing.

Batman moved, and Joker’s arms tightened around his neck.

“N-No!” Joker said. The panic started swelling again.

“Joker,” Batman said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. But I’m taking you back to Arkham.”

He stood, picking Joker up. He let Joker cling to his neck.

Joker rested his head against the Bat’s chest. He tried to listen for a heartbeat under the thick kelvar armor.

Joker did not want to go back to Arkham. He knew now that he did not have five months left. He had much less than that.

And Joker had a heavy feeling that he would not be walking through Arkham’s doors anymore. If the Bat brought him back, he would not be leaving.

But even so, Joker swallowed hard, and said, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuckity fuck fuck. So you know those rare times where you find something put that everyone knows and it's nearly common sense, but you just didn't know it? Well, APPARENTLY I've gotten the setting to nearly each and every one of my freaking stories wrong since I just found out Gotham is in New Jersey not New York? But I might just keep my initial image of Gotham being in NY because I had imagined this whole city, where everything is etc, and if it's in NJ, it kinda ruins it.
> 
> And I found something out while writing this chapter and the next one. I think one of the saddest things I've ever done to a pairing was not killing one of them, but the minute I decided to make Joker blind, I could not handle it anymore. I literally sat and cried for ten minutes. I kid you not this is the saddest I've been while writing something.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you thought and leave a comment! <3


	7. If You Get Better

Joker kept his eyes open, but he saw nothing. He was still waiting for his sight to return. He wanted a bit of light, a sign of hope. He would even prefer the blinding white to the blackness.

Joker knew they were reaching Arkham soon when the smooth roads turn to the gravel one that led to the asylum.

“Bats,” Joker said quietly. “Please don’t take me there,” he said. He had no fight left in him.

“It’s where people like you belong,” Batman said.

Joker would usually smile and make a joke about them being the same kind of crazy, but he did not.

“If you bring me there,” he said slowly and quietly. He listened to the gravel crunching for a while again. Joker had heard Batman’s slight hitching of his breath. He was waiting for Joker to make a threat. Joker ran his thumb over the thick material of the cape, searing the feeling into his memory, however long that would last. “I don’t think I’ll come out.”

“You mean, you’ll try to get better.”

“No,” Joker whispered. He said nothing more though. He did not elaborate. Because he remembered what he always said. “But that’s okay. I just thought I would let you know so you don’t feel, ah, tricked,” he said. He licked his chapped lips. He tasted the lipstick, salt, and hints of blood. He wondered where the blood came from. He did not remember getting any wounds recently. “My life is yours after all. You send me wherever, and I’ll go,” Joker finished. He waited for the Bat’s response.

“If you had been so complacent before, it would have made my life a lot easier.”

The words stung, and Joker did not laugh.

The car slowed, and Joker knew his time with the Bat was coming to an end. He let his eyes slide closed. It was not like it made a difference. But he did not want the Bat to see his tears.

He trailed a hand up Batman’s arm, and found his cheek. “Bats,” he said quietly. He felt the Bat turn towards him. Joker leaned in, guessing the distance between them. But he could not see, and the Bat could, so Batman turned away and jerked his face away.

Batman got out of the car first. The cape was ripped out of Joker’s fingers, leaving a ghost of the feeling behind.

The passenger’s side was opened, and Joker felt arms carry his limp body out of the car. His arms were not moving right now, so he could not hook his harms around the Bat’s neck. Joker let his head hang down. It probably made him look dead, but since he would never know what it might feel like to have Bats carrying him after killing him, he could pretend for once.

Batman walked through the doors and spoke with the lady at the front desk. Then, he went down the familiar halls that led to solitary. Joker knew that well.

He tried to savor ever step closer to the inevitable. Tears welled up behind his eyelids.

He heard the door open, and Batman walked in. Joker was laid down on the cot, and he felt Batman’s touch disappear. Two tears spilled out of the edges of his eyes, but he kept them closed.

“I wish I could see you,” he whispered. He reached out and found Batman’s cheek, feeling the slightly stubbled skin.

Batman was silent for a long time. Then, he said, “Maybe if you get better. I’ll show you one day.”

He stood and Joker’s hand fell back down uselessly. A small smile appeared on Joker’s lips as a couple more tears ran down the sides of his face.

“Okay,” Joker whispered and he listened as the Bat walked out of the room and the door closed behind him.

Then, Joker was left with silence, darkness, and the gaping Batman-shaped hole in his soul.

 


	8. Reports

Bruce always got weekly reports from Arkham. He always made sure he knew what was going on.

He never exactly read the all the comments the doctors made, since he tried to respect the patient confidentiality as much as possible, but he did skim through quickly, taking notes on changes in behavior, or when one of the patients might break out soon.

Usually, Joker had some of the longest notes. Bruce did not read all of it, again, skimming.

But then he noticed that the notes were getting shorter and shorter. They went from a page, to half, then only a short paragraph.

The words were very vague, and they always said approximately the same thing:

_Patient J shows no reactions to any medications or interactions with the staff._

But one day, it changed. Something about a new discovery. Something they had not found before while doing brain scans on Joker. But they do not know what it was. Bruce waited impatiently for the end of the week so he could receive another report. Hopefully, Arkham’s staff would not revert to the old ways and use the patients as test subjects.

But when the week finally reached an end and the reports came in, Joker had the shortest report he had ever seen.

_Patient J slipped into a coma and is placed on life support until further notice._

Bruce stared, dumbfounded at the screen for a long time. The Joker was in a coma. He was in a coma, not induced by drugs, but an actual coma.

A whole bunch of possibilities ran through Bruce’s head, but he kept remembering something Joker said to him.

_“If you bring me there, I don’t think I’ll come out.”_

Joker knew. He knew what was going to happen. He was dying during that conversation. He had tried to tell Bruce, but Bruce thought he was trying to manipulate him.

For the first time, Bruce messaged Arkham’s staff back. He wanted to see the scans. He needed to know what was going on.

Because it finally hit him that the Joker was dying, and could be dead by next week. The thought filled Bruce with fear.

This whole time, he thought he just wanted to rid Gotham of the Joker. But now that that dream was finally in sight, why did he feel despair? Why was he feeling like his whole world was coming crashing down around him?

Bruce wanted to run into Arkham and find Joker. He wanted to grab his hand and beg him like Joker had done, oh so long ago, _“Don’t go, please don’t go._ ”

But he did not. He stayed in the cave, wringing his hands and fighting the emotionally turmoil going on inside him.

And at the end of the week, along with the rest of the reports, which he ignored, Bruce took a look at the scans.

They were not detailed, nor were they very clear. But it was definitely different from other scans in the past. Bruce was not a medical expert, but he knew a couple people who were.

He sent the scans over and asked them to look at it.

And a few days later, when the information returned, they came with grave results.

It was not certain what the disease was, but it was unfortunately fatal for sure. It was too late for anything to be done.

That only meant on thing for Bruce.

Joker was going to die soon, and it was all his fault.


	9. My Life Is Yours

Bruce finally could not take it anymore. The guilt and the longing was clawing at him from the inside. Each morning he wakes up, wondering if Joker had died overnight. Each night, he went to sleep wishing he had said something to Joker before he let him go.

But another week had passed, and Bruce had a strong feeling that Joker did not have very long left. So that night, instead of going out on patrol, Bruce put on the suit and drove to Arkham.

He sped along the country roads, heart pounding in his chest.

He ran into Arkham, demanding to see the Joker.

The lady at the front desk was a stammering mess. But she managed to squeak out that Joker was in the infirmary. Bruce demanded a passing nurse to take him to the infirmary.

Bruce walked through the metal doors of the small infirmary, and his eyes fell on its only occupant. A couple doctors stood by Joker’s bedside, taking notes, but the room was empty otherwise.

There was a heart monitor, an IV drip, a whole bunch of tubes to help Joker breathe, and more things that Bruce did not know about.

And Joker himself, he looked dead. His chest barely moved, and his eyes were closed. His hair was limp and greasy, bits of blonde growing out. His wrists were thinner than Bruce remembered.

“Get out,” he growled at the doctors. They stared at him in amazement for a moment before hurrying out, not wanting to incur the wrath of the Batman.

The minute they were through the door, Bruce knelt by Joker’s beside. He gently took a pale hand in his. It was limp and lifeless in his hands. He brought Joker’s hand to his cheek, and his skin was cold to the touch.

“Fuck,” Bruce whispered. “You knew, and you did not say anything. How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked quietly, hoping for some sort of reaction.

“You’re dying,” Bruce said. “You always said you don’t fear death, and I believed you didn’t. But I need you to, right now. You need to fight for your life. C’mon. I’m sorry I didn’t notice anything wrong the last few times we met. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said you wouldn’t leave here. Please wake up, J. Open those eyes. I want to see your eyes. You said you wished to see me, but you can’t see me with closed eyes, J. Don’t die, not yet.”

He pressed Joker’s cold fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes and hoped.

Then, he felt one of the fingers twitch. It was the slightest movement, but it was movement nonetheless.

“Joker?” Bruce asked, clutching his hand harder. “Can you hear me? I need you to wake up, please. Don’t die. We haven’t finished dancing. I’m not tired of us yet. Please. I need you, J. Wake up.”

Bruce watched as Joker’s eyelids fluttered for a moment, then, they snapped open, showing green, green, green. Bruce stood quickly, still holding Joker’s hand. Joker took a huge breath, his heart rate suddenly spiking.

“B-Bats?” He whispered, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’m right here, J,” Bruce said, relief flooding him. “I’m here.”

“Where- Where are you?” Joker asked. “I can’t… I don’t see you.”

“What do you mean? I’m right here!” Bruce said, confusion tinting his voice.

Joker closed his eyes, and Bruce crashed back to his knees. “No, no, don’t close your eyes!” Bruce said. “Stay with me, J. Please. You said you wanted to see me. I’ll show you. I’ll show you right now, if you open your eyes.”

A small smile appeared on Joker’s chapped lips. “I can’t see you anymore, Batsy,” he whispered. “I can’t see anything anymore. But I’m sure you look very handsome today.”

The realization came crashing down on Bruce. “You’re- You’re blind. Fuck, Joker, why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you _say something_?”

Joker’s smile grew a little. “I did,” he whispered. He murmured something else, and Bruce had to lean in a lot closer to hear. “My life is yours.”

“No,” Bruce said, quickly realizing what was happening. “No, Joker. I’m not taking your life, so you can’t die. Please don’t die. I didn’t take it, I didn’t take it.”

“You know what I mean by that, right?” Joker asked, his voice growing more and more faraway.

Bruce put his forehead against Joker’s, and he closed his eyes, holding back tears of his own. He had been so stupid, so clueless.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice finally cracking. “I know.”

“Good,” Joker whispered. The smile on his face gave one more small twitch before fading. And then, the heart monitor flattened to one single, never ending beep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> "Another day, another Doug."
> 
> Leave a comment pretty please! Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> ~Gray


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